Dream On
by vicodin-vixens
Summary: Remarkably enough, this fic contains dreams! Warning: Slash. We own nothing but some expired NyQuil and feety pyjamas.


House lay awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to the quiet creaks of the floor and the hum of the furnace. He rolled over and glanced at the clock.

3:37 a.m.

Fuck.

He grabbed the bottle of generic ibuprofen on the bedside table and shook two into his palm, then added a third for good measure. Maybe they would help him get back to sleep.

But when House closed his eyes, vivid flashbacks of his dream appeared.

The dream that had woken him.

The one that he'd had for three straight nights.

The one that was causing the uncomfortable tent in his boxers right now.

The one where he'd been kissing Wilson.

Goddamned Wilson, of all people.

_Wilson, _with his morals and ethics and fucking righteous indignation, which was directed at House more often than not.

And the most frustrating part was that no matter how hard he tried, House could not erase the memory of the dreams.

Knowing that resistance was futile at the moment, House reached a hand below the covers and brought himself off, quickly and quietly. But as he drifted off into a dreamless sleep (thank God for small miracles) he swore adamantly that it was _not_ the thought of Wilson that had brought him to a convulsive climax.

*****

The sound of his alarm and the pressure of a full bladder woke House several hours later.

Ignoring the pain in his thigh, he hobbled, caneless, towards the bathroom and flung open the door.

Then promptly forgot his aching bladder as he realized that he had inadvertently walked in on Wilson.

In the shower.

With that cursed clear shower curtain that Wilson had insisted on bringing from the old apartment.

Who the hell buys a _clear_ shower curtain, anyway?

House stood, dry-mouthed in the door way, silently admiring the way soap and water trickled down Wilson's shoulders, to his waist, to the smooth, rounded curve of his...wait.

House smiled with relief as he concluded that he must be dreaming.

Otherwise, he would have already flushed the toilet and made Wilson scream like a girl when the water unexpectedly changed temperature.

So, if this was a dream, and House was certain that it was, all he needed to do was wake the fuck up.

He pinched his forearm- hard - then looked up expectantly. Still in the bathroom.

Wilson was lathering up his hair. And singing. Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA".

Christ. It was no wonder House had been dreaming about him, he _was _a girl for crying out loud.

House banged his head against the door frame loudly.

The singing stopped abruptly, and Wilson's soapy head peered out from behind the curtain.

"House?"

"Ow."

"Are you alright? What are you doing in here?" Wilson sounded annoyed and concerned at the same time.

"Hallucinating." Came House's gruff reply as he shook his head and left the bathroom.

House was pouring coffee when Wilson skidded around the corner, still dripping with water, and wearing nothing but a towel.

If you could call it _wearing._

More like clutching.

A goddamned _hand towel_ no less.

House seemed to have lost feeling in his fingers, and the coffee cup fell into the sink, shattering.

"What is going on?" Wilson gasped, taking a step closer, "Are you sure you're okay?"

House held out an arm to prevent Wilson from coming any closer. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he wasn't about two seconds away from tracing those drops of water with his tongue.

Wilson smelled so good. And he was right there...._right there_...all House would have to do was reach out a hand and pull him closer...

A warm hand on House's shoulder shook him out of his reverie. "House?"

He stifled an involuntary groan and looked at Wilson's hand from the corner of his eye. "I'm fine. What the hell are you doing in the kitchen wearing that.....that....cloth?"

Wilson's brows furrowed in frustration, "I don't know, _House,_" he scathed, "It seems someone took all the towels and didn't put them back. Any idea who that would be?"

Oops. Said towels, House remembered now, were lying in a damp pile on his bedroom floor.

"I hear there's a rampant towel-thief in the neighbourhood." House chuckled, searching the cupboards for another coffee mug.

"Mhm." Wilson replied, running a hand through wet hair. House pretended not to notice the rivulets of water that streamed down his neck, and over his chest. "But seriously...are you okay?"

"Peachy." House snapped, took his second cup of coffee (now securely cradled in both hands) and shuffled out of the kitchen before he did something crazy like throw Wilson over the table and ravage him in ways previously unthinkable.

Still unthinkable.

This would stop eventually.

Wouldn't it?

*******

Two more nights of restless, Wilson-molesting dreams later, and House was in a mood.

Lack of sleep, coupled with his having to avoid Wilson at all costs, equalled one very foul Gregory House.

Wilson, it seemed, was only mildly curious as to House's avoidance, which only served to irk House further.

They were watching NCIS (a re-run, thankfully, as House didn't catch most of it, being so caught up in his own thoughts, as well as covertly studying Wilson's profile and wondering how kissing him in reality would compare with that of his dreams) and Wilson had laughed when House chose to sit on the chair, instead of beside him on the sofa.

"Can't steal my food from way over there." Wilson said smugly, holding his plate of homemade German-chocolate cake closer to himself.

House glowered, sat in silence for a few moments, then casually unfolded himself from the very uncomfortable chair. As he walked past Wilson, he smacked the plate with the rubber tip on the bottom of his cane. The plate upended, and the cake landed (frosting down, naturally) in Wilson's lap.

House continued to limp towards his bedroom, ignoring the sputtering coming from Wilson about chocolate and dry-cleaning bills and immaturity and whatever else he was ranting about.

He stretched out on the bed, with his arms folded beneath his head and counted the ceiling tiles, until Wilson slammed the door open forcefully.

"What the hell is going on?" Wilson demanded, taking his customary hands-on-hips posture, "And I don't want to hear 'nothing'. I want the truth."

"You can't handle the truth!" House spat back. Nicholson had nothing on him. And besides, it was true, wasn't it?

"Oh for god's sake, House," Wilson sighed, shoving House's legs over to make room for himself, "Just tell me! I've had enough of this pouting and ranting and....avoidance. You can't avoid me forever. You've always managed to confide in me before. What is so wrong that you can't tell me?"

House hated that he could hear the disappointment in Wilson's voice. Hated even more that it affected him.

"It's just a stupid dream."

"Oh, well, if that's all," Wilson looked relieved, then smiled. "Actually, when Bonnie was going through her 'New Age' phase, she gave me a dream dictionary. If you tell me the dream, we could analyze it, find out what's behind it."

House closed his eyes. "Burn some incense? Get out the healing crystals maybe? I don't need a dream dictionary."

Wilson was undeterred, however. "Are you sure? I remember that spiders are a symbol of feminine power..."

He continued blabbering about various dreams, and House, becoming increasingly annoyed was forced to sit up and yell at Wilson.

"I'm not dreaming about giraffes or airplanes or muffins!" Then he tried another tack, "Shouldn't you get some soda water on that before it stains?" House asked, looking pointedly at the chocolate smears on Wilson's shirt and pants.

It worked. Wilson flew off the bed in a state of near panic and ran from the room.

House reached for his guitar, smiling. That should buy him at least 20 minutes.

*****

Indeed, Wilson was back about half an hour later, clad in a t-shirt and boxer shorts (House groaned inwardly and focused his attention on his guitar strings) and clutching a dog-eared book in his hands.

"Dreaming about apples?" he asked, consulting the book, "That symbolizes knowledge, wisdom and great prosperity."

"No." House grunted, wishing like hell that Wilson would take the hint and leave.

"Motorcycles? You may be trying to escape from some responsibility in life." Wilson looked expectantly at House, "That is rather fitting, isn't it?"

"Yes." House admitted, "And, _no_."

Wilson's eyebrows raised as he read further, "It also says here that dreaming of motorcycles is symbolic of raw sexuality."

"You're getting warmer." House muttered under his breath, tearing his eyes away from Wilson.

"Weasels? Represents your lack of trust in others. To see balloons in your dreams indicates you're searching for more love in your life. What about mittens? That suggests you are handling things in a childish manner. Which, I may add, you are. As usual."

House put down his guitar and raked a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. " Yes. That's it. Exactly. Weasels wearing mittens are causing my tremendous emotional turmoil. You've cured me, Doctor Freud." He rolled his eyes. "Now don't you have something better to do? Some quiche that needs making, or curtains that need cleaning?"

Wilson was, once again,undeterred, and continued leafing through his battered book. Obviously, he was no stranger to dream interpretation.

"Skunks suggest that you may be driving people away."

"I only wish." House said with a look at Wilson.

"Bandages indicate your need to be healed. Lipstick suggests that you may be hiding something from someone. To see colourful flowers means kindness and beauty, but to see dead flowers denotes disappointment."

"Wilson! Stop!"

Wilson looked up, eyes wide. "Flowers? Was that it? You've been dreaming about flowers?"

"No! Just stop already."

Obediently, Wilson closed the book, eyes searching House's face, "What then? Tell me so I can help you get through this."

"You _really_ don't want to know." House said quietly.

"I really do. I'm worried about you, House."

"There's nothing to worry about," House said, getting up and pacing, rubbing absently at his leg, "I'll be fine."

"Then just _tell_ me." Wilson pleaded.

At this point, House had very little patience. It was either tell Wilson or show him. House opted for the safer of the two options.

"I've been dreaming about YOU, alright?!" House snarled..

Wilson gawked. "Really? What was I doing?"

House lowered his head and took a fortifying breath, "Something you shouldn't. Something _we_ shouldn't."

And much to House's horror, Wilson's face broke out into a wide smile, "Really? That's kind of funny."

"Fucking hilarious."

"No, seriously," Wilson began, face a mask of seriousness now, "It's funny, but it's also normal. We're best friends. We've been spending a lot of time together. We live together, for God's sake! It happens. It was just a _dream,_ House."

House's eyes narrowed as he surveyed Wilson, "I know that!" he snapped, then softened his tone, "So you've dreamt about me then?"

"God, no." Wilson laughed, shaking his head, "That would just be...creepy."

"Thanks so much."

"Not what I meant. Just that it would be...I don't know. Odd."

"Exactly what I've been trying to tell you, genius." House grumbled.

Wilson stood up and placed his hands on his hips, "Well. There is _one_ way I can think of to solve this problem."

House regarded him suspiciously, "How?"

"Kiss me."

"Have you lost your fucking mind?!" House said incredulously. "How is that supposed to _help_ me forget that I was kissing you in my dreams."

Wilson shrugged, "Obviously, the dream has been bothering you because you've _enjoyed_ kissing me. Kiss me now and you can forget the whole thing. It'll prove to you that there is nothing to worry about- that you're not attracted to me in reality."

House stopped pacing and looked at Wilson skeptically. He chewed the corner of his bottom lip, pondering Wilson's suggestion and wondering how his dreams had suddenly blurred the line with reality.

Wilson, however, didn't seem to think there was anything to think about, and he certainly wasn't going to give House the option. He took two long strides across the room, placed his hands on House's shoulders and leaned forward.

Wilson's mouth pressed against House's, and House hesitantly parted his lips and slid his tongue forward, as his hands found the hem of Wilson's t-shirt and pulled him closer.

Someone uttered a low moan, but House wasn't sure whether it was issued from his mouth or Wilson's - they seemed to be fused as one.

House's mind was reeling as the kiss deepened, as he tasted the coconut and chocolate still lingering about Wilson's mouth, traced the softness of his inner cheek, the hard ridges of his teeth, the firm yield of Wilson's tongue.

Wilson was somewhat right in his assumptions. This kiss was nothing like the ones House had been dreaming of. It was so much better. So much more.

The stark realization of that brought House to his senses, and his hands found Wilson's chest and pushed him away.

"Stop." he panted.

Wilson looked up, eyes darkened and dazed, lips swollen and glistening, "What?"

"You're not finding any of this....uncomfortable?" House asked, eyes fixed on Wilson's lips.

Wilson shook his head, then leaned closer for another kiss. "Are you?" he asked, between kisses.

"Not really," House admitted, sliding one hand up the back of Wilson's t-shirt, "But you said you never dreamed of me. Never thought of me this way. It has to be weird."

Wilson drew his tongue along House's lower lip, "I lied." he stated, then kissed House deeply, not giving him a chance to reply. "Twice."

House pulled back, "Twice?"

"Twice. I also knew what you were so flustered about in the first place." Wilson attempted to press his lips against House's once more, but this time, House drew back, out of reach.

"How?"

Wilson grinned, "You talk in your sleep."


End file.
